parts. The spectacle was even more than she’d seen in Chinon, at the lewd court of the Great and True King.
Talk. The strangers seemed oblivious of her, though she could hear them chattering in the backgroundas distinctly as she sometimes heard her voices. She listened only long enough to conclude that what they said, having nothing to do with holiness or France, was clearly not worth hearing.
Noise. From outside. An iron river of self-moving carriages muttered by. She felt surprise at this—then somehow the emotion evaporated.
A long view, telescoping in—
Pearly mists concealed distant ivory spires. Fog made them seem like melting churches.
What was this place?
A vision, perhaps related to her beloved voices. Could such apparitions be holy?
Surely the man at a nearby table was no angel. He was eating scrambled eggs—through a straw.
And the women—unchaste, flagrant, gaudy cornucopias of hip and thigh and breast. Some drank red wine from transparent goblets, different from any she’d seen at the royal court.
Others seemed to sup from floating clouds—delicate, billowing mousse fogs. One mist, reeking of beef with a tangy Loire sauce, passed near her. She breathed in—and felt in an instant that she had experienced a meal.
Was this heaven? Where appetites were satisfied without labor and toil?
But no. Surely the final reward was not so, so…carnal. And perturbing. And embarrassing.
The fire some sucked into their mouths from little reeds— those alarmed her. A cloud of smoke drifting her way flushed birds of panic from her breast—although she could not smell the smoke, nor did it burn her eyes or sear her throat.
The fire, the fire! she thought, heart fluttering in panic. What had…?
She saw a being made of breastplate coming at her with a tray of food and drink— poison from enemies,no doubt, the foes of France! she thought in churning fright—she at once reached for her sword.
“Be with you in a moment,” the breastplated thing said as it wheeled past her to another table. “I’ve only got four hands. Do have patience.”
An inn, she thought. It was some kind of inn, though there appeared to be nowhere to lodge. And yes…it came now…she was supposed to meet someone…a gentleman?
That one: the tall, skinny old man—much older than Jacques Dars, her father—the only one besides herself attired normally.
Something about his dress recalled the foppish dandies at the Great and True King’s court. His hair curled tight, its whiteness set off by a lilac ribbon at his throat. He wore a pair of mignonette ruffles with narrow edging, a long waistcoat of brown satin with colored flowers, and sported red velvet breeches, white stockings, and chamois shoes.
A silly, vain aristocrat, she thought. A fop accustomed to carriages, who could not so much as sit a horse, much less do holy battle.
But duty was a sacred obligation. If King Charles ordered her to advance, advance she would.
She rose. Her suit of mail felt surprisingly light. She hardly sensed the belted-on protective leather flaps in front and back, nor the two metal arm plates that left elbows free to wield the sword. No one paid the least attention to the rustle of her mail or her faint clank.
“Are you the gentleman I am to meet? Monsieur Arouet?”
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “Arouet is my father’s name—the name of an authoritarian prude, not mine. No one has called me that in years. ”
Up close, he seemed less ancient. She’d been misled by his white hair, which she now saw was false, apowdered wig secured by the lilac ribbon under his chin.
“What should I call you then?” She suppressed terms of contempt for this dandy—rough words learned from comrades-in-arms, now borne by demons to her tongue’s edge, but not beyond.
“Poet, tragedian, historian.” He leaned forward and with a wicked wink whispered, “I style myself Voltaire. Freethinker. Philosopher king.”
“Besides the King of Heaven
Talk. The strangers seemed oblivious of her, though she could hear them chattering in the backgroundas distinctly as she sometimes heard her voices. She listened only long enough to conclude that what they said, having nothing to do with holiness or France, was clearly not worth hearing.
Noise. From outside. An iron river of self-moving carriages muttered by. She felt surprise at this—then somehow the emotion evaporated.
A long view, telescoping in—
Pearly mists concealed distant ivory spires. Fog made them seem like melting churches.
What was this place?
A vision, perhaps related to her beloved voices. Could such apparitions be holy?
Surely the man at a nearby table was no angel. He was eating scrambled eggs—through a straw.
And the women—unchaste, flagrant, gaudy cornucopias of hip and thigh and breast. Some drank red wine from transparent goblets, different from any she’d seen at the royal court.
Others seemed to sup from floating clouds—delicate, billowing mousse fogs. One mist, reeking of beef with a tangy Loire sauce, passed near her. She breathed in—and felt in an instant that she had experienced a meal.
Was this heaven? Where appetites were satisfied without labor and toil?
But no. Surely the final reward was not so, so…carnal. And perturbing. And embarrassing.
The fire some sucked into their mouths from little reeds— those alarmed her. A cloud of smoke drifting her way flushed birds of panic from her breast—although she could not smell the smoke, nor did it burn her eyes or sear her throat.
The fire, the fire! she thought, heart fluttering in panic. What had…?
She saw a being made of breastplate coming at her with a tray of food and drink— poison from enemies,no doubt, the foes of France! she thought in churning fright—she at once reached for her sword.
“Be with you in a moment,” the breastplated thing said as it wheeled past her to another table. “I’ve only got four hands. Do have patience.”
An inn, she thought. It was some kind of inn, though there appeared to be nowhere to lodge. And yes…it came now…she was supposed to meet someone…a gentleman?
That one: the tall, skinny old man—much older than Jacques Dars, her father—the only one besides herself attired normally.
Something about his dress recalled the foppish dandies at the Great and True King’s court. His hair curled tight, its whiteness set off by a lilac ribbon at his throat. He wore a pair of mignonette ruffles with narrow edging, a long waistcoat of brown satin with colored flowers, and sported red velvet breeches, white stockings, and chamois shoes.
A silly, vain aristocrat, she thought. A fop accustomed to carriages, who could not so much as sit a horse, much less do holy battle.
But duty was a sacred obligation. If King Charles ordered her to advance, advance she would.
She rose. Her suit of mail felt surprisingly light. She hardly sensed the belted-on protective leather flaps in front and back, nor the two metal arm plates that left elbows free to wield the sword. No one paid the least attention to the rustle of her mail or her faint clank.
“Are you the gentleman I am to meet? Monsieur Arouet?”
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “Arouet is my father’s name—the name of an authoritarian prude, not mine. No one has called me that in years. ”
Up close, he seemed less ancient. She’d been misled by his white hair, which she now saw was false, apowdered wig secured by the lilac ribbon under his chin.
“What should I call you then?” She suppressed terms of contempt for this dandy—rough words learned from comrades-in-arms, now borne by demons to her tongue’s edge, but not beyond.
“Poet, tragedian, historian.” He leaned forward and with a wicked wink whispered, “I style myself Voltaire. Freethinker. Philosopher king.”
“Besides the King of Heaven
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